The Smell of Him
by l'ange de lumiere
Summary: He attributes his life to his sense of smell. It's saved him almost as many times as Suoh or Kirishima. And it has stored memories for him that his eyes never could.


**A/N:**

 **Writing has been slow these past few weeks. I'm binge watching M*A*S*H. All eleven seasons were just put up on Netflix, and now I'm hooked. I was making it through one season every two days, but I hit season eight. With the end looming near (and me not being able to handle that yet) I've slowed down my progress.**

 **My muse is still with VF, as always. You might spot a couple of other fandoms coming along the way soon. Maybe not. But bear with me, I'll finish everything.**

 **Totally un-beta'd. Had a little bit of a rough day, and this is what comforted me. I'll have another one shot in a few days (hopefully) before I return to the full length stuff.**

 **Thanks.**

 *****VF*****

It wasn't the acrid smell of civilization that awoke him every morning, nor the coppery scent of the bloody remnants that he failed to get off his hands in a scalding shower.

It wasn't the saline musky that lingered in the air after hours of fucking, or the smell of a woman's cunt that got him hard.

It wasn't the smell of petrol as a bus screeched to a halt too suddenly in standstill traffic that terrified him, that made his heart bruise his ribs in fear. The smell of poisoned cognac was more cliche than threatening. Asami almost welcomed those days as a break from the monotony.

It was the smell of him––the unadulterated pheromonal sweat that marked Takaba Akihito, that clung just behind his ears and to the nape of his neck. It was that smell that aroused all feeling, all thought, all action from Asami Ryuichi.

Smell had always been an underrated sense as far as he was concerned. It wan't weakened by age or destroyed by time; instead it carried once-upon-a-times that were as vivid as paintings. The nose lacked the pizzazz and glamour needed for the limelight. Who would want the nose of a bloodhound when one could have the sight of an owl, the hearing of a bat, the reflexes of a tiger. Being able to smell danger before it happened did not sound thrilling.

He attributed his life to his keen sense of smell. The sharply scented spark of a gun as the safety was drawn back was so redolent in his mind that he swore he could smell the metal catch in the middle of Shinjuku. Twice he had drawn his gun, ducking low and alerting his men to a threat before they sensed it. Asami could smell the tasteless poison that watered down his brandy. Though not grand, exciting or protuberant, his nose saved his life just as frequently as Suoh or Kirishima.

Asami would carry a smell with him for the rest of his life.

It was why he never one offered to go down on Akihito. He thinks it might be too intimate. Though he has dreamed of slipping the boy's bouncing ass apart, of shoving his nose deep into that burning chasm, and finally knowing what Akihito's core tasted like––smelled like, he dares not. He knows that should he bury himself in his boy, he would never be free. He doesn't want to relive the taste him on the tip of his tongue, the cloying smell of him on his upper lip. The boy would never be gone.

Not that Asami wants him to go. No, he would prefer his lover to stay safely perched in their penthouse, naked and perpetually aching for the man. Asami always felt assured in his power when his kitten was safe. His one weakness, and Asami really wouldn't call it a weakness, but maybe a penchant. A soft spot for the tenacious, vibrant kid.

But Akihito wasn't a kitten, as much as Asami wished it; he was a lion, and a lion could not be tamed. So the fixer let the boy do as he pleased, and he was rewarded abundantly. He had the privilege to witness the cub mature into an adult. It was a breathtaking sight.

Silently, in the dark recesses of his mind, Asami hoped he would never smell Akihito. Not the clinging musk after sex, or the salt of his cum. Not the mint shampoo that softened his hair, or the opalescent tears that would fall from his doe eyes. He contents himself with the smell of ink stains on paper, the crisp stubs of his cigarettes. He relishes in these smells because they are familiar, safe. They don't scare him the way Akihito's fragrance does.

Most of all, Asami hopes he never smells Akihito's blood as in drains from his lifeless body. He could, in his graphic dreams. It soaked his fingers just before the crime lord awoke, black in the moonlight, and was so potent that he could almost taste it. It was in those sweat soaked moments when his heart races and his stomach roils that he knows what real fear is.

And Asami doesn't like it one bit.

 *****VF*****

 **A/N:**

 **Short and sweet, and absolutely no dialogue. This is totally something I don't do, but it happened.**

 **Have a great week and if you find time time, please say a prayer for Austin and Perry (the two fourteen year olds lost at sea), as well as for the family of Xiang Liujuan (the woman killed in an escalator accident).**


End file.
